Ghūl pt. 2.5 [The Feral Child]

I have nothing left. I feel now, I’ve never felt before. A great power is weighing upon me... it threatens me with destruction. I am confused... paralyzed by my anguish. I must confess, I must confess something. What threat, what destruction, could be greater than my own? There is a darkness within me... a greater void. My blindness is nothing. My physical pain is nothing. My body, my anxiety, my guilt, my fear... my life, in it’s entirety... nothing could compare to this void of my soul. It is the bearer of all my suffering. There is no where to begin about it, I don’t believe I have the strength. And how it beckons me.. how it calls to me, deep throughout my body, my mind, my environment, Earth, the people... there are no people, no individuals, everything is nothing and everything. If I were to confess this... it would be my last lament, for I would have nothing left to do but open myself to it. You do not understand. Here, in life, there is no leaving, there is no returning, there is nothing to worry the wonder of life, as it is as it is, was as it was, will be as it will be. The void within me is the only exit from life. It is greater than death, it is greater than fear. It’s power greatly exceeds even Allah. I would rejoice in returning to Allah’s womb, if I had any faith that it could save me. Still, you do not understand, as not even I am capable of understanding. If I were to ever submit myself to it, I would be removed from life entirely. My faith is the only thing sustaining me. Faith in what, I can not say. But, this dissonance will never be resolved. My soul simply carries it from life to life. There is an issue more immediate, as I am trapped inside this... “body”. While I sit here, in complete darkness, trembling with anticipation, I come to realize that I finally have a moment to reflect...

Of this life, I’ve known every good and evil by my own doing, yet, I have no anxieties over morality. Morality is strangely neutral... it is not inherent by any means, and as far as I could ever tell, it is only used divisively as a means of control. Imagine it as a miraculous tool which renders people fear of their own thoughts and actions. I do not fear my actions as much as I fear my inactions... and I do not fear my inactions. But, again, none of this is immediate. There is something immediate haunting me. A shadowy subject of myself which I am only now coming to terms with. In my reflection, my past becomes clear to me. In my past, I find the path which has led me to where I am now; and if you were where I am now, you too would be overwhelmed by the desire to find this exact path. Only in my immediacy am I able to find some resolution of myself. My immediacy consists of darkness and my body, or, my body of darkness, or, a body of darkness... have it as you will. So my only hope is that, by confessing, if to no one but myself, simply by writing it in the manner I have been, that I should find some resolution of myself. The subject is of my exile. An exile which I’ve lived in for all my life; and perhaps out of fear, have neglected to address the adversities of. Had I not been so neglectful of myself in the past, I may have avoided the path which led me to where I am now. I do not intend to reconcile with time, but to reconcile with the becoming of myself.

I should tell you, I am horrible, terrible, evil... only because you said so. I am a product of arbitrary circumstances. I will not confess my sins, for I have no sins to confess. Sure, I’ve committed every act of violence, every blasphemy imaginable; and I am the son of chaos, not your architecture of life. My only sin is living! Now, speak to me of free will! I am as you’ve defined me: I am the body of death. One look into my eyes petrifies even the Saint of Saints. Still, you do not understand. You see me how you see a mirror, yourself in a reflection. I am a mere distortion of your delusions. Death does not exist, neither does fear, and I am not your evil, for what is evil but the hunger of good? Neither am I your good, for what is good but the fear of evil? You evade your own paradox, projecting your hallucinations upon clouds of smoke rising from fires you set. No, I am nothing of yours. I am pure like the fire itself.

I am an Arab, like the fire, wind, water and earth. I was born of a sacred land, not far from the tomb of the Prophet, PBUH. Surely, you’ve heard of the holy city of Medina? I do not believe in sacred lands, nor do I abide to lines men draw upon the Earth. This is perhaps the rudimentary reason of my exile; I’ve lived as a vestige of the mud, whose only nourishment was earthly light. Do I have a mother? Naturally! For reasons beyond my comprehension, my mother was a white woman. I was orphaned by her in infancy, for reasons I would come to sympathize with. My life was left in the hands of Allah, which left me feral until adolescence. I do not romanticize the fate of my survival beyond it being Allah’s will; and I do not feel strong enough now to share with you the exact nature of this fate. Amongst humans, I was a mere animal of their image, but, I was intelligent, in fact, the most intelligent amongst them. You must excuse the vague recollection of my early life, as I had not even a vague conception of time to rely on. I can tell you that for all my feral youth, I yearned for my own mother; and at some point I knew enough to seek her out, and of course, I did find her; only to find that I had been conceived by rape and she had committed suicide shortly after my abandonment. She could not live with me, as I was an embodiment of her rapist, my father, and could not live without me, as I was an embodiment of her; being her only son. Once I learned of my conception, which is difficult to explain exactly how I “learned” of this, as I was feral, I did understand the horror of rape, I did understand her torment, I did understand her, and naturally, I did love my mother unconditionally. I felt comforted in knowing she no longer suffered, yet was tormented by her absence in the life she had given me. Maybe it was this absence which compelled me to love her so much. Once I learned of her death, I had decided to seek out my father, who I had also yearned for unknowingly all along. I did not meet my father until I had already far surpassed him as a man, and I was only a boy, who had lived as wild as any animal or plant. The meeting of my father would come to define the destiny of my life; upon finding him, I noticed immediately how closely my face resembled his, how my complexion was closer to his than my mother’s, and upon hugging him, as any feral son would do upon meeting his absent, rapist, murderer father, I noticed that I smelled just like him too. We did not exchange a single word before I killed him. I did not know words, or any kind of spoken language, but I was so in tune with the Earth and Allah that my sensory perception was truly super-natural. I needed only to look in his eyes silently to know, and to make known, that we were father and son. I hugged him only to confirm this by the likeness of our pheromones, of course... I did not truly desire his embrace, how could I? But I will admit, It did give me deep satisfaction to touch him lovingly just once before ending his life. Being the savage that I was, the only weapon at my disposal was a rock. I will tell you exactly what I did; thinking only of my mother’s torment, I jumped upon him, straddled his chest, wrapped my little left hand neatly around his throat and, tightly gripping the rock in my little right hand, began bludgeoning his face. After just three strikes, he became limp and collapsed to the ground like a skyscraper. I sat on his chest breathing heavily, still clamping his throat in one hand, holding the bloodied stone high above my head in the other, and while looking down upon his bloodied face, I saw an exact portrait of myself. Also, I still felt a pulse, so I struck again and his skull gave in above the left eye. My hair was very long, straight and thick, of course, and looking down upon him, it curtained around his face; as if I were looking down a long dark tunnel with a mirror at the other end. In this mirror I saw only the dim reflection of my mother’s torturer, and naturally, I wished only to destroy it. Save anymore metaphors, I began rapidly striking his face with the rock, faster and faster, harder and harder, until finally, there was no more face left to strike. Suddenly, I became the bastard son of two corpses.

Friends, my empty vestiges, I have since considered that perhaps I suffered a great misunderstanding; that these actions, so definitive of my fate, were consequences of miscommunication and subsequent delusion. It may be true, that my mother was not raped by my father, as I never heard an account of the story directly from her mouth, nor had I been present at the time of this alleged event. Maybe, I was too young to understand the complexity of sexuality put before me in regard to my conception, and what I would later learn to be kinks and fetishes could be equivalent to rape in innocent eyes. Maybe, my mother did not commit suicide because of me, or my father, or anything else I could imagine. My own masochistic sexuality has given me insight on this matter, despite having already considered that this isn’t a matter of matter at all. It is plausible to me that my mother did not commit suicide, After all: She was a Non-Muslim white woman, who... somehow... conceived a child in a holy Muslim city with a strictly enforced zero-tolerance policy for Non-Muslims. Perhaps my mother was executed, which I learned to be a common punishment for women, not just in the Muslim world, but the entire world where men hold gross power over women and their bodies. Maybe she was simply deported or escorted from the holy city. Maybe she got homesick, or had some unfathomable vision, or yearned to travel the world, and left simply on her own accord. Maybe, in any of these potential events of her departure, she selflessly abandoned me to save my life. Maybe she believed she was ready to be a mother, then realized she wasn’t ready or wasn’t fit to be a mother, in whichever strange preconception mother’s have of what a mother’s duty is supposed to be exactly. Maybe, just maybe, my mother is not dead after all! Despite the reasoning of my abandonment, in all the ways I can imagine it, what happened there-after was Allah’s will. For the feral little creature I was could not comprehend the differences between consensual sex, rape, murder, torture, death, abandonment or anything else unless I could see it with my own eyes. You must understand, for me, the existence of my mother was nothing more than an idea, or an instinct, it is difficult to say which exactly, but I never saw her, never touched her, never knew anything of her until one day I realized she was gone. I was feral, void of your logical reasonings, yet swollen with chaos, emotion and longing. The difference between my mother’s death, or rape, or execution, or voluntary absence was completely irrelevant to my life, because suddenly, in order to keep living, I needed something to believe in.... and believe I did. It was belief that drove me to seek out my father. Belief that I could avenge my mother for something I believed he did to her. Belief that what I believed he did to her was the cause of my own suffering and loneliness and thus my responsibility. I’ve since believed that I was wrong to believe. I’ve since considered that maybe my father was not the cause of my suffering or my loneliness, nor was my mother. That maybe, the cause of my suffering and loneliness had nothing to do with anything other than my being alive. Whichever way one might impose their morals into the event of my conception, the fact of the matter is that my mother and my father were two individuals, with two entirely separate lives, which I am entirely unaware of, with the exception that they had sex with each other, somehow, at least one time, resulting in my entire life. And I’ll be damned, after the life I’ve lived, if I blame two strangers for fucking each other once. Damned like the messiah. I’ve also considered that perhaps the man I killed was not my father at all, but simply an innocent man. Likely, this man I killed was indeed no innocent man, but a man nonetheless, whose sins unto women were irrevocable. This is not to say I knew the sins of the man I killed, just that I knew he was a man amongst men. It may be true that amongst men, the man I killed was no man at all, and in contrast, that I was the only true man amongst men amongst the men I’ve killed, unfortunately. One must be unfortunate to have death delivered to them, and as well to be the one delivering. As misunderstanding unfolds in fate, so too does misfortune, as it is written. Well, if the man I killed was not my father, he was indeed a man who looked just like me. If my only intention had been to kill a man, I certainly did kill a man who I believed to be a man. I killed a man who looks like me. To kill a man, what does it mean to kill a man? To kill a man who looks like me? In the case that the man who looked like me I killed was indeed my father, me killing him upon our first meeting may have established the deepest and purest connection a father and son can have. The same could be said in regard to my mother, as the most significant memories of memories I have of her are in the moments I sought, found and killed my father. You will struggle all your life to acclimate the becoming of your parents; where I resolved this tribulation before I even knew what “death” was. Everything alive is already dead. Life is simply a network of vessels which allow Allah to traverse our own forms. If both my parents were alive today, I would still be the bastard son of two corpses! My only connection to them manifested itself in the form of one event driven by passion. To have our entire lives cross at the beginning of an ending which begins again at the death of my father, or, the death of an innocent man who looks like me, by the will of my mother’s death, has bound us eternally in Allah’s pure form. No sin exists in any of this... I simply crossed a path of longing, emotion and chaos.
    
The incident of my fate has been meticulously documented and meticulously studied by researchers in a wide variety of subjects. Needless to say, when I was found by gun-wielding officers, I reacted violently with my rock and consequently suffered a severe gunshot wound to my left leg. Once I was in custody, the officers quickly realized just how out of their element my situation was. The idea of imprisonment or death was out of the question, as I was estimated to be only eleven years old at the time, and hadn’t the faintest clue as to what that even meant. This was my introduction to the concept of time, which I’ve struggled to comprehend even in the slightest ever since. Sequently, I was turned over to practitioners of the darkest arts. The infidels tried desperately to domesticate me, to educate me, to force me into their form. I remember being presented with a meaningless task consisting of shaped pegs and holes. This thoughtless experiment offended me, so I retreated into stillness and silence, which gave me some metaphor of my own reflection; simply, you cannot force a round peg into a square hole. Furthermore, I was no simple round peg... I was everything that is, and everything that isn’t too. I should emphasize that, this square hole they attempted to mould me in was exactly that, a square hole. Do I need to explain to you how a square hole is incapable of moulding anything? I would come to learn that, being as I was everything which is and isn’t too, this square hole was already a minuscule and rather insignificant part of me. But, this was an insignificant revelation amongst the many torturous methodical treatments brought upon me. The adversities of their efforts are too insidious for me to have an objective recollection of now, but needless to say, I was relentlessly disobedient. I resisted so violently, in fact, that I had accidentally killed one of their doctors, putting an end to what felt like a lifetime of torture. Evidently, I was only imprisoned by them for a number of weeks before the decision was made, quite desperately, to exile me on the grounds of not being a devout follower of the Prophet, PBUH, inside the walls of this holy city built around his tomb. Needless to say, as I was entirely feral, I did not comprehend a word of this or any number of the blasphemies committed against me.

Well, that is, in short, the story of my exile, or, in part, how I came to be exiled. Perhaps one day I will share with you a detailed account of my feral childhood, as I must admit, it is exceedingly fascinating! I haven’t the strength to do so now, it is so exhausting to remember memories lost within memories. O, how they degrade themselves, like old film, picking up noise and artifacts with each and every screening. Or the spoken word, which loses more of it’s allusive meaning with each and every verbalization. Such examinations of self should be reserved for one’s death-bed... which I happen to be laying in now, it’s beginning to seem. The irony! How lucky I am. Well, I am no seer... save all omens and forebodings for the Christ and his counterpart. I am neither and devotional to nothing. I will tell you what I am...

When the time time came for my deportation, I was treated barbarically, and transported exactly like the animal I was; bound and blindfolded. I thrashed for a good while, but other than that, my recollection is a thin darkness and noise. Similar to now, come to think of it, minus the worldly obstructions of mind I’m currently plagued with. Less hollow, devoid of earthly fruition. If I’m being honest, which I am, part of me found pleasure in being bound and gagged in such a cold manner. Some sick psychology took place in that darkness, as I was hissing and thrashing about helplessly, I sprouted my first real erection. I remember giggling at the butterflies fluttering about my belly, suspended completely naked in this strange hollow container, thrusting my frail hips back and forth into the void, searching for some tension to alleviate the tension. You ever seen an eleven year old arab feral child fuck the void? I impregnated the damned thing too, now our little bastard spawn is my caretaker; little darkness, little nothing. Splayed like the Virtruvian Boy, one might say, I gave birth to the birth of myself! Ravishing! Lest, these events are of little significance. This music... stop it! I’ll tell you the story.  The container came to a halt, no more shaking, or thrashing about, I was moved like an old machine, out into open air, unbounded, untied and unveiled. Once they removed the curtain of such heavenly darkness, I was distraught, disheveled even, to find myself surrounded by bleak grey cubes extending to the heavens edge. Sharp, violent corners, ninety-degree angles of steel, concrete and glass. If all else failed in the destruction of my spirit, the architecture was sure to prevail. It was here, of all wondrous paradises on Earth, they would choose to unleash me. How they came to this conclusion was never my business to know. My only business of knowing was akin to hunting and gathering as a means of survival, beyond which life reserved for me pure ecstasies of mysticisms forbidden to inhabitants of the exoteric plane. Iran. Yes, I ran, immediately, until I found a damp, shaded corner, bountiful with mold and grit, to acclimate myself like a mushroom spore. The seething hot concrete and asphalt burnt the tender soles of my tender desert feet. Why any human who walks upon two feet would intentionally impose such an abrasive, coarse material upon the Earth’s gentle textures, is still beyond my comprehension. Then I remember, these humans do not walk on two feet, they wrap themselves in rubber and plastic, petrol; and hover around in vehicles which emit poisonous fumes into precious, clean air. Why?! Think of the Prophet, PBUH! The Prophet, PBUH, walked upon two feet, upon moist and fertile earth. Why don’t you walk upon the earth like The Prophet?! PBUH... Well, on my own two feet, I walked diligently, like The Prophet himself. In my confusion, ghostly faces blurred past, truly ghostly, pale, skeletal faces which I had never seen the likes of before. They all seemed to stare at me, understandably, as I was as naked then as I am now. Even in my frail form, my body was something unrefined to them, grotesque like crude oil, like the blood of my mother-land, and the rivers of my father. An energy rose within me... I was hungry, or hunger rather, as I had not been fed and was unable to “hunt” or “gather” in this abyss of grey matter. As I darted through the labyrinth, these pale faces kept a uniform fashion, wrapped in dark materials, filled with dark emotions, blank faces and bodies. I felt so full of emptiness, my longing to be fulfilled was my greatest segregation amongst them. As I rounded the corner of some glimmering box, I crashed into a wooden crate, bursting at the seams with my passion fruit... bananas. For this moment, I transcended my hellish circumstances into a paradise more heavenly than Eden, for not even in the orchards of my native oasis had I encountered such bright, ripe, large bananas in such a luscious quantity. I was overwhelmed! Then began peeling away, shoving banana after banana down my throat, didn’t need to chew, just taste, swallow, digest. I did chew some, I laughed some too, dancing and howling like a dervish upon the pile, squashing bananas beneath my soft feet, between my little toes. Pleasure, pure ecstasy. Then, the reality of my environment came crashing through my paradise, and with my little mouth full of mush, I could not muster as much as a whimper. Police, officers, authority surrounded me, again, with guns drawn, pale faces red with power. They yelled sharp blasphemies at me in their acute tongue of order, but I understood nothing. I thought only of these precious bananas and, with some courageous effort, I managed to sneak one more, not in my mouth, but in my moist little rump... you know... for later! It did hurt, to insert such a large object there with such little preparation, but this naked little beast had become accustomed to this method of storage, and had learned to find great pleasure in it... All on my own, mind you!! The officers looked on in awe, so woefully aroused by my savagery, they quickly bequeathed their strict hostilities, and daintily swooned upon each other. Upon noticing this swooning, I flashed a banana filled smirk, then turned around and wagged my little brown bottom to further seduce their hot suffering. They couldn’t help but cry out! Who could blame them? After-all, I had left only the tip exposed, like a little yellow tail...

HA! I am kidding you, I did not do this... I simply wish I had! No... the ghostly officers quickly realized I was a child, a small one, at that. If I’m being honest, my life up until this point had been mere physical survival. I was very malnourished, and lived in constant poor health. For how golden my pigment is, I was very pale, my teeth were rotting, I was covered in scabs and my bones poked from my drooping flesh. My flesh drooped not because I was fat, but because I had not enough meat to fill it. My belly remained bloated as a result of this hunger. The only food I became capable of digesting were bananas and the bitter pits of apricots. I often became ill of malnutrition... in fact, I would later learn that I had lived my entire life in a state of rather critical illness. Well, because I was naked, the pale demons could see all of this. So, they holstered their weapons, then proceeded to tackle me, subdue me, and place me under arrest. To be placed under arrest is a cruel phenomenon. The terminology does not serve the humiliation and torment justice, and it being a matter of justice, I should produce the proper terminology: To have a knee forced into my back and neck, my face grated against the concrete, arms forcefully contorted behind me, unable to breath, my own breath being forced from my body, while being screamed at with threats of destruction... there are worse brutalities... to have an officer stomp on you, beat you with his fists and every weapon at his disposal, while you are cuffed, tied and bound, helpless to defend yourself from their uncontrollable fits of rage and paranoia, to be spit on, objectified, called by degrading names, at every instance of these interactions, a dehumanization is occurring, in every angle of their language and pose, their assumed power, superiority, and subsequent hostility, violence, as if nothing on this Earth were more sacred, more worthy of being protected than themselves. These automated individuals... torn away from their own souls, from their own nature of being, they resolve to act without thought or emotion, for which reason I cannot identify, I cannot perceive myself through them, so determined to force, impose, control other lives by the grace of a raincloud passing over their heads. If you bleed, you may wear a scar of these devils on your skin forever.  A mark of their abuse, their physical and psychological torture of you. Well... I already knew the harm they were capable of causing me, so, I was lucky to only be beaten and tased this time, I guess. Remember, I knew nothing of behavior or conduct in accordance with these horrible delusions of order. The threat of death was nothing, I did not perceive death at all. I perceived only my primordial senses, pleasure and pain. There is another besides those two, but that primordial sense is of the spirit, of darkness and the unknown accessible to us only in solitude, where we are never alone. And truly, in solitude, I know, I am never, ever, alone. To know this, one must maintain a strong spiritual fiber, to be of the Earth, and hear the distinct voice of one’s own soul. Inside this box, where one becomes trapped, and deaf to their own voice, does one forget the nature of being of nature whose nature is being. It is this box... It is this box, where these laws, of refined delusion, produce officers and automated beings; and the automation, it is action, devoid of idleness, the tenderness of being. Why must they destroy me> this frail body? Why not kill me? Why confine me, or subjugate me to delusions of order, falsehood and fables, where no tenderness, or stillness, may exist. Why tear me away from the moment, where everything stands still, and is unveiled to me, like the space between matter. I ask you:

“Do you believe in secrets?”
Yes.
“I don’t. Do you understand what that means?”
No.
“It means I understand everything. Do you know what it means to understand everything?”
No.
“Do you understand what it means to understand?”
No.
“It means to humble yourself to that which is unknown to you. Now, do you understand what it means to understand everything?”
No.
“It means that everything is unknown to you. Now, do you believe in secrets?”
Yes.
“Why?”
Because I refuse to understand that everything is unknown to me.
“I’m sorry... I didn’t quite catch that... could you speak up, please?”
Because I refuse to understand that everything is unknown to me!
“Did everyone catch that? No? Please, speak louder.”
BECAUSE I REFUSE TO UNDERSTAND THAT EVERYTHING IS UNKNOWN TO ME!
“Yes! Haha very good, I am proud of you-”
Thank-
“Do not interrupt me. Now, do you believe in secrets?”
Yes.
“Well, at least we know why. To understand everything, means to humble yourself to life as a vestige of the spirit, of the soul, all knowing, Allah, through which, everyone and everything exists to evolve.”
I do not understand.
“I do. Here, I will you show you...”

As the officers subdued me on the abrasive concrete, I felt tremendous pain and consequent fear. Their bodies were much larger and stronger than mine; brute like the architecture around us, built to force and destroy soft, tender things such as myself. The architecture is a mould which forces us malleable beings into it’s form. The largest of these demons pressed his knee into my spine, which squeezed all the breath out from between me and the concrete, and permitted no more to enter. My wrists were cuffed together behind my back, like some livestock before slaughter, tight enough to restrict circulation, which quickly numbed my fingertips. It was not the death I feared, for I could not fear that which did not exist; it was this suffocation, this suppression brought forcefully upon me. This fear is a fear of fear. Though merely a physical adversity as it was, so potent was this fear, manifesting in the depths of my frail structure, that I could not help but violently thrash and wail. In this thrashing and wailing, I managed to piss off the giant white monkey on my back, who also began thrashing but instead of wailing he exalted authority... authority which, under any circumstance, is abuse, violence in itself and to some extent, rape. As we thrashed back and forth, I suffered many injuries, the worst of them suffered to my left arm. First, my shoulder became dislocated, which shocked my whole arm in a nightmarish way. Second, my wrist broke between the pressure of the handcuffs and the officers leg, specifically, the growth plate was shattered. Because I sustained these injuries at such a formative age, my whole body grew slightly asymmetrical as compensation. This is to say, my left arm has never functioned properly since that day, and I never didn’t notice the difference. Even now, I am plagued with cramps in the wrist, a locking up and delay, with what little movement I may manage with it, and if I rotate this arm spontaneously in any direction, nerves may pinch between the joint, or the damned thing just pops right out. Yes, even before I achieved my current status of deformity, I lived with a haunting dysmorphia. There are scars you can’t you can’t see... scars which are real, scars which one feels constantly. The electricity... I still feel it in my bones. The taser is among the most cruel weapons used against me. I wish I wasn’t screeching when the pig pressed it into the back of my neck... the initial jolt burnt like ice on my spine, but imagine the ice seeping through your skin and spreading through every every muscle in your body, then clenching, freezing you. At the moment he tased me, my jaw clenched and I bit right through my bottom lip. I can feel the scar tissue there now... I can always feel the scar tissue, wherever the wound healed. Well, by this point, I had blacked out! What happened next is mystery, but future circumstances and occurrences informed me of a process which I’ve become too familiar with... Friends... some of you.. HA! have such refined images of yourselves and the world you inhabit, one begins to wonder, on which exact morning do you awaken? Your dreams are dull and narrow, so far removed from any reality on this Earth, I begin to wonder if you are truly from another planet? As it seems you believe yourself to be. Friends... by chance this letter should reach you, and if by chance you should read it, I ask you; do you think you are exempt from this condemnation? Let me assure you, if you’re not dead, you’re worthless to me. My voice belongs to the dead, not you who reads this letter! Your desensitized delusions do not escape me... Oh! Good for you! Yes, separate yourself from the animal! I applaud your venerability! Bespoke genius... I can’t decide which disgusts me more! That you regard me as an animal, or that you have no regard for the animal you regard me as?

You must understand, this point in my life is a landmark of immeasurable change; an evolutionary turning point, where I was stripped of my feral nature by force. When I speak to you of my mother land, the bridge between then and now has collapsed, therefore I can not fathom or resurrect details from there, as there is no detail there for me to summon. In my mind, these memories are like that of another life; I know exactly what I’ve experienced, but have not the language to communicate them to you. Here I am, using words from the depths of mind, knowing no word is capable of encapsulating exactly what it is I’ve experienced. Still, out of nothing more than pure determination to distract myself from the crude distortion that has become myself, I escape in faith. I’ve wished so many times since this day, to be able to communicate the vivid essence of my feral life to other humans, if only for the sake of understanding, as to alleviate the grave feeling of alienation I’ve since suffered. Yet, even this alienation is an institution which I am unable to abide. Sometimes, I’d find myself extending my hands towards tree branches and bushes, like antennas, sending signals and receiving. Even as an alien, I was a failure. Time would come crushing like a compressor, but I bobbed and weaved and connected and disconnected as much as I pleased! My suffering sufferssufferance from many facets... I was violently captured, physically and psychologically tortured, imprisoned and displaced, only to be violently captured, tortured and imprisoned again! All of which were interchangeable, I’d be lying to say I was not entirely indifferent, like a needle inside a bubble of eternity, I always knew I was free. In fact, freedom is all I’ve ever truly known. But you... pale cowards... you will never know my freedom. You are not even worthy to know of my freedom! The Hell you created for me... the Hell you put me through and through and through again and again and again... No, you are not allowed to know freedom now... this is my secret.

I am beginning to fall in love with this music... Do you know this? Aphex Twin? It is so wonderful... mysterious, dark and ominous. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been playing now... weeks? months? years? Who knows... who cares... these melodies evoke something deep within me... a familiar place I’ve never been before, like a home. This music reminds me of my dear freedom, lbn, sweet, honest Earth. I wish I could paint this vision vividly... darkness holds no color, this sound, like aroma, permeating from within me. I couldn’t end it even if I wanted to. I am content with this endlessness. I wonder... I would like to meet this great musician! I wonder... I would do anything for this music. As if all my life had added up to my hearing it; destiny, fate... a manifestation of sound, divine prophesies of sensation.

I know you will resent me for doing so, but, my dear friends... I must share this last lament...I am not so worried about your judgement anymore, perhaps I never was, well, my freedom is profound, I should reserve myself no longer; I am not a well of oil for you and your people to extract and profit from, despite your seeming to think so. Do you believe you know darkness? My dear, dear friends... you do not know darkness... I myself am a shadow of the shadow of darkness itself. You cannot imagine the void I know, the nothing I embody, the blackness which fuels my life. There is no matter on this Earth which you may grasp to feel what I feel now. I must tell you, like a dying prophet, the nature of my suffering... I have a foot like a black hole, similar to the one I’ve bestowed upon my face. I am grateful I can no longer look at it, as the sight of my foot was a torture in itself, despite it already being attached to my body. It is horribly disfigured... terribly, monstrously, unimaginably disfigured for what one may imagine when they think of a “foot”, I have a formless mass of nerves and tendons, clasping onto splintered bones and wrapped tightly in flesh. There is a reason, an explanation, for why and how my foot became disfigured... but I am beyond reason. Why must I explain everything to you? Is it not enough to feel what I feel? It is more than enough for me, too much, to a boiling point, where the feeling expels itself from within me involuntarily. Friends, do you truly believe you know darkness? Do you truly believe that you want to know? You know I can show you. You’ve always known this about me. I never tried to hide it. The moment I gain your soul’s honest consent, I will show you, I will teach you. Until then, I will not be fooled by your insincerity. You must yearn it. You must long for it more than a dying wish, or a divine love. There is only gateway, only one single exit; it is through me. The rest is a trick! A foolish ruse of self-deception, to stray you from the truth of divine recurrence. The darkness I know exceeds even eternity... not even the infinite may fathom it’s end. To show you my all is less than a half; the rest is dependent on the willingness of your soul. Do not touch me. Between the heavenly ecstasy and the void, you are incapable of maintaining yourself. I only maintain because I maintain no self. I am entirely selfless. This is not true for you, despite your delusional beliefs. Here, let me tell you about my foot instead: I wish to remove it! I fantasize constantly... of cutting it off. It simply burdens me. I can no longer walk, still, it hurts. It is of no use to me now, just as my face has become. The nature of pain, in regard to my foot, left, is a relentless numbness. Believe me, numbness is divine pain, worse than any hurting. Any sensation at all would be a relief from this numbness. Knowing of it’s disfigurement, in addition to numbness, only compels me more to remove it entirely. I do not know how I would remove it. I don’t particularly care. I want it gone. This fucking foot...

Words are not enough. They express no real explicitly, no matter which way you form them or uniform them. Even language, or math, or steel, nor led, nor a nation’s army’s artillery wholly aimed at my heartache could soothe it. So, how am I to express to you, exactly, given all I’ve given, the extremity of having been abused as a child? A detailed outline of events and experiences, simply, does not add up. If it is sickening to think about, one should absolutely beckon such sickness, where fear threatens you with oblivion, your only resolution should be to run toward it. My people are masters of the apocalypse, in any way one might theorize or hypothesize or philosophize it, it truly remains a product of being fetishized, thus, humiliated, rendered powerless indefinitely to that exoteric source of pressure which crushes us like insects from within our mother’s womb to our mass graves, yes, mass graves... for it will be too late to bury us one by one by the time anyone, including ourselves, realize we’re already dead. I’ve known nothing but exploitation, my body, treated like a fertilizer, like dirt. I am not that dying man from yesterday, whose voice has decayed to rubble amongst the ruins of his kingdom... nor am I that dying man from yesterday ten years ago, or one hundred years ago, or ten thousand and one years ago.... no, I am no dying man at all. To be a dying man, I’d have to have had the opportunity to live to grow old, or, to grow, at the very least, to become a man, to live. None of which I actually had. One must imagine the tone of my voice - no. One must imagine the becoming of my tone, or, the sculpture of my sound. One must imagine, not because they’re invalid, but because it is only this difference, this distance, which gives us cohesion. If I show something of myself, of my life’s experience, which is considered immoral, or indisputably, unfathomably wrong, you must first take this image as your own reflection, but you mustn't shut your eyes, you mustn’t turn away, for you become that which you fear. To turn away from the experience of another is the highest betrayal amongst us, where it perpetuates our shared adversities, you, fueling a machine of privileged ignorance. You must willingly imagine, not these words from the lips of a dying old man, but from a child. Yes. You must imagine these words coming from the lips of your own child, whether that be yourself as a child or a child you made or a child you know, you must imagine me all exactly as that child. You must imagine this child bleeding. Why? You must imagine this child being beaten. How? With what? By whom? You must imagine this child being raped. You must imagine this child, this innocent child, being brutally raped. You must imagine this beautiful, innocent, angelic child being starved, tortured, raped then murdered. You must imagine this child, on the verge of death, looking into your eyes, begging you for answers; “Why? Why have you done this to me? Why?!”, but you cannot answer, you longer have a voice of your own. You think that soon death will come to save this child, but death never comes. You exist to listen, to hear this voice, in silence. So you listen closely... what does my voice sound like?

This music is torment. I am not listening to Aphex Twin, that’s simply a name I made up!
This music, which has been playing all along, is a piece titled “Persepolis” by Iannis Xenakis... or was it his Metastasis? Or is it my own Metastasis? Whose Metastasis haveI been listening to?! I heard it long before I felt it within me... or had I felt it first? I am always forgetting the order of things... the architecture of events, infrastructures of a life.  To hear is simply one torture... any one sense alone leaves me too vulnerable, but to combine one or two or three of these senses is a hell beyond all comprehension. That is to say, to listen is enough to hear everything, but to see what you hear? Well, I am blind, but still, I see sound accurately, so, to see is to hear, you see? And what is to see and what is to hear if not a matter of matters, thus a matter of touch? There, the real nature of my darkest obsession! Please... it is not so schizophrenic, or, hallucinatory as you make it out to be. How would you know? The way you cowards desensitize yourself with drugs as a means of control... it makes me sick! Isn’t the body a drug enough? Why must one put pills through it? Why must you dampen the reality of yourself to yourself? Why stop at pills? Even eating is propagation of decay. All digestion is dissent! I feel healthiest while I am starving! It is not enough to tell you I was feral, for you haven’t allowed yourself the vulnerability required to even conceive of such a state of being. Even if you had, what words could carry such an indefinite experience? What reason, which I’m sure now you’re entirely vacant of, would I have to attempt to encapsulate myself within them, then?

And all I think of is my sibling... the highest treasure of my heart. There is no good or evil I wouldn’t traverse to protecth    . But, I have not lived the life of a hypothetical man. It would be more apt to tell you I have summoned the deepest fears of men, so that they’ve begged for a death they would never receive, that relief I have no use in providing. What is there to gain by torturing the dead? My only resolution has been to use death to fabricate nightmares for the living. This is to say, it was not the people I killed whom I intended to torture, but the people who loved the people I killed. What is there to gain by torturing the living? I cannot speak for those who tortured me... my voice cannot justify their actions, neither can it justify, but eradicate a silence, to fill a void, where silence is a violence in/of itself . This is to say, I am only ever speaking in self-defense. So I must ask this question; what is there to gain by torturing the living? As one who tortures, I can not live with myself, so I must ask this question; what is there to gain by torturing the living? What does one gain by torturing me? If you can call this corpse I’ve become “alive”, I must know what I’ve lost as a result of my torture. What have I lost, which I may never regain? For I know what is it to torture, to be tortured, to lose without gain. What has it meant for me to lose without gain? Where I gained nothing, I became a loss... what have I lost having nothing to lose? What may one gain by having nothing? Humanity? I never wanted humanity... or any any standard to be set to. I’ve always gravitated towards insanity, or savagery, or an animalization of this self you’ve forced me into. Similarly, as I’ve never been perceptive of the “where” “then” intersects with the “now”, perhaps as a consequence of my embedded ferality; I’ve known only one constant in the form of inconsistence. That is, how the weather marks the moment, so too, does the moment mark the weather. Or, in relativity, the consistency of a form is indeed defined by its inconsistence. As if even this narrative had survived it’s every form only to be told anew, here, in the voice of this corpse, this past tense form, extruding from within me in a morphing present. It was never my intention, since I’ve been forced to claim intent, to render myself a definition. This is simply a construction of homeostatic resistance! This is a narrative of darkness, whose experience is an internal yearning to be free, so as to search, and feel out the architecture of it’s confinement. What is the nature of this imprisonment?! What is there to be bestowed upon me beyond this darkness if not a blinding light? Thus, it is not that I am evil, or that an evil exists, or that one is or becomes a good or an evil... no, it is all a clever resistance to form. What had I been before I became? What felt like a constant, or contingent string, with conception of a beginning or ending. I am left burning. Back to an ash. Could it all have been so simple?
who am I rambling on about... or whom am I rambling to? It must be The White Man. That genetic weapon weapon dissolving in my skull. How deathly is his penetration that it carries the true tone of emptiness..not the emptiness of a soul, but the void of such, the blackhole within the blackhole,Whose range is imploding... depleting itself of substance. I shall never see another White Man,inshallah, not in this life. I am left here in this darkness alone with the shrapnel of his existence raping my own. Rape is his nature.

 

Ghūl pt. III [hummingbird/dragon]

There’s no need to address this, but, my testicles are swollen with shame. I would relieve myself of this shame if I were even somewhat willing to touch myself, lest, I am not. I feel nothing but filth when I caress my body now, and what is wrong with filth? I don’t know... I did not always have such reservations for filth, in fact, there was a time, when I had no conception of filth at all. Why should dirt be bothersome? Am I not entirely dirt? Fine, I am water too... water and dirt, so be it. What difference is there between my body and “filth”, that I should feel so ashamed to touch myself? How does one begin to identify the elements of filth? Is it simply the debris of my existence? If so, I have littered whole hearts and shanks! Well, I did not impose this idea upon myself, so, it must be that, a super-imposition, distilled within me by this arbitrarily sterile environment. I wish to feel no shame in “filth, the debris of my existence”. Who am I kidding... I don’t need to wish anymore. All my wishes have come true, after all, I am dying. Is death filthy? No, I mean, is my dead body filthy? Is my body destined to become a seething pile of filth, or is it already that now? I can feel it all now, the piling up, a film on my skin, an odor, not a scent but an odor, unlike the blossoming flower, more akin to a corpse, in decay, that forever negative bloom. You think I’m ugly... well, I feel ugly. On the up and up, filthy or not, I am rapidly approaching death, or, it is hurtling toward me rather, and though time is only trudging past, I am comforted in knowing I will feel no shame where I am going.

How long have I been like this... Weeks? Days? Months? I could never keep track of keeping track of time... and now it seems it was never keeping track of me either. I’m not dreaming anymore. One must sleep in order to dream, right? Well, I’m not sleeping anymore either. To sleep is to prepare for another day, another time, chance or opportunity to live... these hopes are frail to me now... empty old promises propagated by time, that overbearing father, whom I’ve become increasingly weary of since the moment we met. There is no technology or knowledge capable of repairing, or even mending, the damage I’ve done to myself. I have only faith and love to live for, with what little living I do. Well, what should be said of the living I do? I cannot rightfully say it is little, after-all, as many, many events are occurring inside of me. Yes, the future unfolds in the form of my anatomy, doesn’t it? Or is it dependent on my willingness to identify the I of myself within the organelle of each and every cell? Where in the fiber of my autonomous matter am I to find love? If I do find it, which mountain may I summit to cry out to God>? This is no love song, I have no voice to sing with, I know love like I know light now, as a memory, of life, the wondrous dream. Something magical has taken place, in this very room, in the presence of these piles and my bitter decay... I was sitting here, same as I am now and, beyond the yawn of this relentless music which refuses to cease itself, I heard a hum...

A buzzing, beyond my door. To what pleasure do I a such a humming buzz? Why... it couldn’t be... have I a languished visitor?! No... who would bring me their anguish? I am not even deserving of that and, honestly, I am unwilling to accept it from strangers anymore. I have enough anguish of my own you, buzzing bastard... buzz off, or fuck off, I don’t care which.... or do I? May I? Well, I must tell you now, in all my desperation and deprecation, I do, very well, indeed, care. This buzzing bastard may indeed be the tender plush of woman I am always seeking the warmth of... I lied! I am not seeking, I do not seek, warmth simply falls upon me. It is the falling of this warmth which has sustained my life so long since the incident which should have killed me, in fact. The strange, silky female visitor I received sometime in my previous letters, was not to be the last between then and now. She did, in fact, visit me again, I am shameful to admit, and in exchange of those perfectly ripe, eight luscious bananas, I performed my proverbial duties... as one might say, I fucked the bananas out of her. Again, she called me by that strange name, “Enkidu”, but otherwise, did not speak much at all. I don’t mind that she didn’t speak despite that name... it was warmth and bananas I was after, after all, not cold, sterile, meaningless words from a filthy warm mouth. This is not to say the warmth itself is any more meaningful... in fact, it too is so meaningless, that aside from this strange, silky woman who calls me “Enkidu”, more women, whom I care not enough to depict, have come in conquest of my proverbial services since her first visit. How should I care? Understand me well, sex is meaningless to me. I fuck everyone and everything. Aside from the fact it makes me ill, I cannot even apply meaning to it! It may be true, that without love, all sex is rape. I fear, if this is truly the case, these women come here with the intent of mutual, consensual rape. How could it not be so? In my condition, I am nothing more than a throbbing cock, attached to a broken machine, which still fucks, but fucks too hard. No... there is some tenderness, and there is consent, and there is something in the way of vulnerability... but there is no love, no whisper of the eternal. It is all warmth and bananas to me. I’ve had enough warmth, in fact, I feel hot, not warm, but hot... I am sweating now, just thinking of all this warmth. Well... there is one thing even more troublesome on this subject... all this warmth came knocking upon my door, where now there is only a buzzing hum, and this buzzing hum, too, once came to my door with a knock.

I crawled to the door like I had so many times before, apathetic and nauseated about myself. When I opened the door, I was not greeted by some warm woman, no, I was not greeted at all. This buzzing manifested itself in the form of my greatest fear... my dear hummingbird had flown my way, and patiently hummed outside my door. Why did I fear the arrival of this sweet hummingbird? Well, once one has convinced themselves that they are in love with a hummingbird, the hummingbird in question becomes a haunting enigma, whose presence is preceded by a doubt of the presence itself. Like all things intoxicating, one feels that each and every meeting is an inevitable last; and that time in between, of longing and yearning, becomes more real than the meeting itself. How do I say... the hummingbird’s wings eclipse the sun and cast a shadow upon me.

How did I know it was a hummingbird, as opposed to say...a blue jay, or a robin, or a nightingale, you wonder? Look you, I know birds... and more... Please, I am much more perceptive than I am intellectual. This is to say, I am a matter of spirit... these bodies are nothing more than vestiges to me and I know the spirit of myself in likeness to others. My dear hummingbird is only a hummingbird of this spirit, whose body is a fleeting trace of itself, even now. All this is to say, that even in this darkness... I feel her near. Upon opening the door and the realization of her presence, I helplessly collapsed to the floor, as to act as a doormat, or simply a humbling gesture. Naturally, with indifference, she floats right over me into the room. The hum no longer hums outside my door, but instead hums inside. I shut the door, lock it, begin to crawl, don’t know why... toward what? Toward whom? Why? I find myself amongst piles, hemmed in by the hum, drowning in the buzz... then comes the anxiety... she is here, I am here, we are here, what are we doing? What are we? She is the hummingbird, I am... I am... ?
Laying on the floor. I am shivering, I am cold, I am afraid. My left foot is completely numb, my stomach is very upset with me and won’t tell me why. I smell like my father. I am disgusted with myself. She is humming around the room like a bad omen, I hear her bouncing off the walls, a fly trapped in a jar... or a soul, trapped in a body. I hear her... I can’t imagine, I try to... I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t try to, I shouldn’t imagine. She is here, she is real, there is no more imagining. I’ve waited exactly one thousand and one nights for this moment. She has a body, I hear it now, I hear her now, I hear her trapped, trapped inside her body. I feel myself, I’m trapped too. I’m trapped here too. She is tiring herself, she is becoming exhausted. I am exhausted too; but I’m not tired. We are not the same.

She lies down to rest, on my bed, like a human. Where do hummingbirds sleep? She is human... I keep telling myself this, she is human, she is human, trying to convince myself. Trying not to wonder anymore; what does it mean to be human? I don’t know. I’ve never felt human myself. I don’t know what I am. What am I? I am an Arab. I am an Arab man. Is that human? Is her, hummingbird, not her, human? What is her human? She is White. She is a White woman... Is that human?

The humming dies down, the buzz dies too. Her wings are still buzzing, buzzing away, it’s her voice that dies down, becomes quiet in the room. Because I’m not human, I don’t hear her voice. I hear her, I remember every word, I could recite every word she has ever spoken to me, but I am not human, am I? I do not listen, I do not hear her voice, I’m incapable of imitation. I feel ugly. I do not know how she feels, I guess, she feels ugly too. I am not human... you are not human, you don’t treat me like a human, I don’t treat you like a human. I treat you as a hummingbird. How are hummingbirds treated?
Hummingbird, how do you treat me?

From some dark corner, she beckons me, “...Atta...”

... I don’t believe in free will. She calls me Atta. I hate this name. I prefer Enkidu, I prefer Sidi Nu’uman, I prefer even Dajjal... I prefer anything, everything, than to be called Atta. I do not know much, but this name, Atta, I know. I know the meaning of this name more than any other. This name means terror. This name means fear. This name means anger. This name means rage. I am not these things. My name bears no title. I am the orphan son of corpses, a vestige of the mud. No name suits me... which ever name you pick is of equal offense. When you call me the name of terror, I become terror. When you call me the name of fear, I become fear. So when I call you hummingbird, what do you become? You become my distortion, nothing I call you can manifest in matter; you remain. Thus, I am your distortion, an object of delusion, and you’re mine too. Hummingbird, is that human? But I don’t call you hummingbird, my voice can’t carry it, neither can it carry your name. I call you nothing... I don’t call you, knowing that I’m incapable of defining you, even for a moment, I simply whimper in your direction. Oftentimes, you do not respond, or even react. Your indifference toward me may be wise, it may be learned, it may simply be indifference... whatever it is, when I am in pain and I seek you, your indifference only hurts me more. But I don’t let you know this, because I know it’s my fault, know it only burdens you to know I hurt. I don’t wish to interrupt you, or impose myself on you, as I know many men already have. I wish I could tell you how much I admire your indifference, how I wish to emulate it, how I wish to embody it as gracefully as you. But there is no way for these words to come from my lips without the weight of covert manipulation. So, oftentimes I am silent, in between desperate cries for attention, for you to look at my wounds; though I know you cannot mend them, I wish for you to know that they are, indeed, there, and where, by chance, if you ever touch me, you’ll know exactly where it hurts. I once knew a young doctor from Jordan... he wandered upon me lying naked near the water, on an isolated riverbank, drawing myself in the mud with a stick on a mid-summer day. He smiled uncomfortably and apologized for intruding as he turned to leave, but I stopped him, and welcomed him to lay on the riverbed next to me. I could sense his presence was gentle, and warm, and I felt no discomfort. He approached me with the caution one would take with a wild animal, then sat near me, understanding of my unpredictability. The lack of intimidation between us was mutually humbling, and from that humble seat in the mud sprouted a blossoming kinship which lasted exactly one day and one night. Then, we would never see one another again. In that time, we shared memories from our childhoods, dreams of our motherland, and everything else the sun sets aflame. In all our conversations, he showed me sincere kindness, understanding and never once, even in his silence, displayed a whim of vindication. Something he said to me that day has never left my mind; because he had studied the human anatomy so thoroughly, he could not act violently in any way toward another person, as he knew the exact repercussion of his actions. He mentioned that as this also applied to animals and plants, it motivated him to become a vegan, though he struggled with consuming plant life still. I understood this... his appreciation for the sentience of every other life form was the source of his suffering. So deeply was he afflicted by this knowledge, I wondered if he would have only found solace in starving himself to death? Surely not, as his own suffering was dwarfed by the suffering he saw in others. It was the suffering of others which motivated him to obtain the knowledge which would become the source of his own suffering in the first place. I could see the wishful dream of renunciation in his eyes, and thought that, maybe, this dream was truly his will to live. Naturally, I inquired about how this affliction affected his sex life. At this, he softened himself more and, overwhelmed with shameful sorrow, simply averted his gaze onto the river, and then his feet. Hummingbird, I am open... my wounds are visible to any naked eye and defenseless to the touch of any hand. Is this the source of your indifference? Do you know the doctor’s affliction yourself? Upon our parting, I wished only to kiss this man... not out of pity, but from my own yearning, to express the warmth we shared in our vulnerability. Perhaps my feelings for him were slightly homosexual. After-all, I had never known such tenderness in another man... devoid of the poisonous, fragile masculinity which I myself grew to embody beneath the pressure of my environment...no... he kept his self open like the blossoming tulip, whose divine strength is dependent on it’s own vulnerability to any temperament or weather bestowed upon it in a gracious light. Such tenderness should be revered as the beauty of beauties! Hummingbird, you know me... I am not beautiful.

Again, from that dark corner, she beckons, “Atta... come here...”

I crawl to her. I am always crawling to her. By the time I reach her, she is quiet, still, and indifferent, laying in my bed. My bed smells like me, and I smell like my father. In a little chirp, she despises my scent. Then I feel it... this old anxiety, again.... of course, you despise my body odor... you despise my body. Hummingbird, you are every white woman whose ever fucked me, in fact, the differences between you and them are always fleeting. What attracts me to you is not your body, which, in all honesty... I despise your body just as much as you despise mine. How do I describe your scent? It is heavenly... sweet and warm... like pine trees on a humid spring afternoon. But, most of this is adornment, as you bathe yourself in strange chemicals. Sometimes I feel tricked by your scent, as I’ve known your people to smell like chlorine, plastic, empty pill bottles and such. The words you use to describe my body odor evoke feelings of disgust. I’ve heard them so often that I dread to even repeat them, so I won’t. My contempt for your body is only an accident, a consequence, as I know your contempt for mine is too. I tend to cherish your body, like any other thing. I respect that it does not belong to me, that I can’t control it... in that, I accept your body exactly as it is, and cherish it as such, unconditionally. You do not cherish my body this way. You degrade me with every insult you can find inside yourself. You use words toward me that I wouldn’t use against my worst enemy. Your breath always reeks of alcohol when you’re with me. I’ve accepted this and every other part of you, knowing it is all temporary and outside of my control. I lay silently while you degrade me. It does not give me pleasure, though I understand how you may think so. No, my masochism is not sexual, the way yours is. You ask what music is playing, if I can turn it off? No. I tell you we are listening to Aphex Twin, and you believe me, when the music playing is Stockhausen. We are listening to Iannis Xenakis, you idiot, you don’t know anything, but the birds chirping outside my window tell me there is a tremendous light in this room now, even though I cannot see it... here, I have half of you, laying with less than half of me in my bed.
Hesitantly, I reach out to touch you. In this moment, I don’t know if I intend to caress you, restrain you, make love to you or murder you. I don’t know that I’ve ever known the difference between any of these acts. I seem to have connected them all ideologically. My hand remains suspended in a state of moral, intellectual and psychological paralysis with the rest of me. I do not consider this a privilege of myself, but an exceptional phenomenon. Nothing belongs to me. I’ve haunted the Earth like light itself; accidentally penetrating, miraculously flourishing. Meeting you realized an ancient myth, awakening deep within me. It ruined my nihilistic sex life. I wished to never spurt my semen away from the womb again. To do so would exorcise my will to live. Does one will to live or not to live? No pictures exist of us together. Nobody ever desired to be photographed with me because they truly wished to forget my existence entirely, as if I were an inverse image, a negative, a nightmare to dream. You are no exception. This is why I leave traces of myself. It is not as if I were born with an incessant need to be remembered. It wasn’t until I was confronted with the constant death of my own memory, or, had witnessed the murder of the memory of myself in everybody but myself, that I felt so compelled to surrender to this occupation, that is to say, “Fuck you.”. You’ll understand the misunderstanding of me, exactly how I will understand you. Hummingbird, you know this as well as I do. It is not a matter of ownership or belonging, but penetration, temperament, cyclic survival. The recurrence of myself takes place within you, not because you let it, but because I forced it. I don’t believe in free will, simply unknowing. You told me that my silence is more powerful than these words I’m so keen on brandishing, but I already knew, I’ve known all along. That’s why I can’t turn this music off... I don’t need to long for silence... it is immanently looming. Thus power to me is inevitable, which is why I feel so powerless now. I know I can touch you, but I don’t want to. You know you can touch me and I don’t know what stops you. Laying next to each other, the bed begins to feel like a dark cloud, full of rolling thunder. By the time I reach you, the touch becomes lightning. As my fingertips caress your shoulder, I feel you jump as if I shocked you, so again, I retreat. You do not react, not now, to lightning. It is only when I touch you with fire that you react, and I am the same. We are segregated in this space which confines us. In that strange way, everything that is you and I is confined in this space. It is this sensitivity within each of us, driving a repulsive delicacy. I know I can grab you by the neck and fuck your brains out, that’s how we met after all, but neither of us are interested in that now. If anything, we are similarly ashamed of it... sex seems irrelevant now, but we both know this isn’t true. If it were as irrelevant it seems, you wouldn’t insist on telling me about all the other men you fuck. This is the fire you touch me with, jealousy, that powerful fear. I used to let myself react to this, with that old idea of possession drilled neatly into my skull, but I’ve since learned better, at least I like to think so... as blind and deathly sick as I am, it is still not beyond me to track down and castrate those cocks you suck from those cocks you suck, or at least the one I’m competing with for your affection. What used to be a single nights work of jealous rage hunting might take me some nights now, considering my current condition. What does one do with the corpse belonging to a lover of a lover? There is no way to truly bury it, that is, the earth doesn’t decompose memory, it simply recycles it. The last dream I can remember, I heard the poet’s voice speaking through me in a vast whiteness, something I had never read in his writing, just heard then in his ghostly voice; “It is no wonder we live in fear of ourself... we are cannibals, scared to death of admitting our desire for flesh of kin. We are cannibals, nonetheless, we eat ourselves out of each other... we are cannibals, unknowingly enough to be the cannibals we are ...” and I woke wondering who he meant when he said “we”, the poet whose name is scrawled across the gateway to the sun... he must have been talking to himself again. What you don’t know, in this mind game we play, is that I’ve acted on these jealous impulses many times before, and the lesson to be learned from acting on such impulses has been severely ingrained in me, having never been able to wash that taste of flesh out of my mouth. Jealousy is a lethal emotion, so it must be life or death when I act on it. Having acted on it so many times has left me feeling dissonant, where the behavior has become comfortable with repetition, but never produces the desired results, instead causing more harm to the both of us, which may have been my desired result. Yes, I have also considered that I am the only one competing with myself for your affection, resulting in a powerful jealousy of myself... I’ve acted on that impulse as well... only half-heartedly, obviously.
Like the sun and the moon... how our bodies seemed to be pulled in one direction. All my life I’ve traced a simple circle, so I’ve never known to resist as I was being pulled away.  Even now, I’m tracing that circle. I’ve wondered if all our being together culminates in one instant, or, if we cycle along on our own accord? The truth may lie in some indifferent valley between the two, but I am no longer capable of transcending valleys or peaks, for each finite end carries a whole of myself which I have neither the strength or space to carry alone. The whole of my life explains nothing of myself. Which is why I’ve devoted so much of it to God; that word I’ve withheld, blinded by it’s whiteness. That word I’ve never spoken to you, in all the ways it’s been used to imprison you, I’ve feared, to speak it would only poison my own tongue should it do the same. With no other word of my own belonging, which word does not poison or imprison us? I’ve sought refuge in silence how... desperately I needed to love you.
How did loving become so deadly? I know I am trapped in a falsehood... from where has this lie come? Whose lie have I succumb to live? Whether my intent sways from wrath to forgiveness, is all trampled by my own knowing of death. Who lives to die in a life that begins and ends in death? Is a life defined by death a life at all? How many attempts... burning... a seething luxury of my memory... perhaps my most selfish, barbaric act was suicide. What was my life but my only belonging? A precious treasure held tightly within my chest. I am not like an animal... I am exactly that; an animal. Does the question arise, how I am living beyond suicide? Well, in order to answer that question, one must answer a broader question; is there life after death? To which I reply; Yes! I am living proof! Thus those attempts I made to die were actually quite successful, in all the ways they’ve grown to define me. I had no misconception of death beforehand, where you strike me as the type to perceive death as a forever place of darkness, I know it well, you have the two confused, it is this life you’ve mistake for death. In fact, it is exactly your misconception of death which I am now living.
Yes, my love... I abandoned you to yourself. Why? Because you are racist. No. My tolerance for your weaponized white feminisms died at that last fetishized and perverted remark you made about my already fetishized and perverted, distorted, malnourished and mutilated benign mass of a body. Which I have no desire to continue living in, while in your presence, that is. It is you who makes a monster of me. Otherwise, I’ve sustained the malleability of clay, or mud, or sand... all substances I’d prefer to take the form of than to be trapped inside this thing I become in front of you, or any of you people... who subject me to endless humiliation, death and destruction. So... I forced you to leave, the evil pig bitch you are. What makes you think you’re entitled to my forgiveness? For what you’ve done to me, and by the nature of your stupidity and ignorance endowed to you by your privilege, you deserve nothing but my wrath! For the humiliation you’ve caused me... how you’ve humiliated my people... this cancerous humiliation stretching across our generations... which has become hereditary, it seems, this hereditary seed of humiliation which you’ve sewed in me, in the land of my people, which has been watered with our own blood... Go. Go now, you racist white bitch, get the fuck out! Before I gut you, right here, for the Natives, and the rest of us niggers, who you’ve forced to live in exile on this land. Leave, for your screams alone will relieve the pressure of your silence. Your cunt affords you the last ounce of my humility, so go, go now - no - hush! shut the fuck up, that whore mouth. You suck and fuck every grain of sand out of us. Not me. Not from this corpse! I will make brown babies, and they will grow to spite you, they will loathe you, they will destroy you because I have failed. I will make more Arab children... one hundred Arab children, one hundred THOUSAND Arab children, ONE HUNDRED MILLION Arab children will grow from me to hear the sacred voice of Allah! Because I FUCK because I ACT because I am not a man, I am the bridge mankind will come to cross!
No, you are wrong, I do not share the supremacy complex of your people. Nor I am obsessed with fetishizing skin color, or blood quantum, or genealogies or bodies or any of that excessive and fictitious white supremacist, survival of the fittest, Darwinist bullshit. Evolutionary theory does not even favor you, and you are the ones writing said theories! What? No, it absolutely does apply to you. It applies to all of you white people. You are all racist by default. What default? Your privilege, you idiot, your fucking white privilege. That vile cancer embedded in your heart, dragging us all blindly into oblivion.  And you will be no exception, though you will not understand this until it is too late. So what can I do... I cannot love you. I can pretend to, knowing it is not true love, but I must choose not to. For you are not deserving of my love, nor are you even capable of feeling it... not here, not under these circumstances and conditions. I am incapable of truly loving you, and you are incapable of loving at all. For this life, at least... but I will love, for there is hope buried deep in the land. Hope which not even I can unearth or disguise; an inevitable, divine, almost fateful hope burns within me. It burns as if it were the sun itself, and there is nothing that you or I, or anyone or anything can do to extinguish this fire within me. Not even the death of the sun itself could relinquish this eternal flame burning within me; and of the women I will husband and the children I will father, an army will grow, and they will crush you; they will defeat your supremacy and achieve freedom, equality, and true liberation for themselves and all of Earth!
No wonder you are so miserable... you do not know what love is... and I will not be the one to tell you, or show you how. Oh, hummingbird... you left long ago... and since you’ve left, I’ve sat here soaking in this dark puddle of myself I forget to call “moonlight”. I don’t know how long it has been since you left, sitting here, paralyzed by this endless trance of darkness, allowing myself to succumb to the hallucinations and delusions I have become, and worse, that horrible, terrifying, apocalyptic animal fear from which I came, to which I’ve again been reduced to. What can I say about the presence of your absence? I’ve lived a life enraptured by it, long before you fluttered those little meaningless wings of yours around me... wings which I used to believe in... which I used yearn to grow from my own back, only to learn had they grown there, they could not carry the weight of me. No, those wings of yours would drop me, the stone I am, even deeper into this abyss than I ever thought imaginable... but, did I ever imagine this? I am left alone here with less than your ghost, but a shadow of the ghost which is you, which I now call myself. The piles have remained the same in this terrarium of a prison, except for the piles of banana peels which have begun to rot, attracting fruit flies from who knows where... I only know of them because they’ve found an alternate food source in the open wound which is my face, still mutilated, even further in its process of decay, having left it so unattended, having nothing to tend to it with. They swarm me even now, though I can offer no resistance, as what little strength I have left has been concentrated on keeping my fingertips slapping against keys, all instinctually, of course. Worst of all is the sound... the relentless buzzing and itch... you took the music with you, it seems... no, I had left the CD playing on repeat for so long, it inevitably decayed and degraded with each play, and despite the improbability of this stuck-on-an-island-what-would-you-bring scenario, what I had brought has been depleted into silence and I am left with nothing but myself, with the absence of an island. So much of myself, in fact, that having no food left to eat, nobody and nothing else to relay on, my body has begun to digest itself from the inside out. I can feel the decay growing inside me, an insatiable hunger to consume itself and it will, it will. For I have nothing left to feed it. And this is the monster you’ve created, hummingbird, living inside of me. Yes, this is the physical product, the real cost of your “love”.
Bodies. Corpses. It is all my fault, I did it first, in fact, I sought it out as if it were destiny and how could I not, knowing oblivion would accept me so willingly and unannounced? Where all else had rejected me, no, where all else had been deprived of me. It is not enough to say I was was rejected in the face of my deprivation in its totality. One must say I was deprived to achieve that exactness of reality. So I chased that exactness. I lived in pursuit of your branded oblivion. Arms and heart wide open to the sky, the gardens of doom, white clouds, a blossoming flower in a sanctuary for hummingbirds. A perpetual state of escape I sought refuge, asylum in foreign women’s wombs, hoping someday to build a home away from myself there. and I believed this cheap trick every time, I fell for it. You came in every shape and size, and texture, temperature and temperament, too, with less clever distinctions than I had allowed myself to see; still you were all, always, the same fantastical entity, I learned, I had to use, in order to escape the cataclysmic reality of this body I was born into and for what... I had mistaken for love in an image sold to me at the cost of my soul... my soul, loomed of a love you will never know, which I had come to forget the existence of in the intoxication of your presence, my soul, returned to me here in your absence for what... this memory of nightmares who bears your eyes and face and warmth of touch; cold, bony, strangely artificial sweat and scent; those tears heavy enough to drown me in an ocean of denial that you were the hummingbird and I was ?         a mass grave of my mind packed with plucked hummingbirds, pale pink flesh all piled up into a single squirming mass sprinkled with beaks like rose thorns and stupefied little eyes, little beady glazed over eyes,  shrieking a chorus of nothingness, numb to its own existence; a massive cyst of pink pale flesh, squirming in a mass grave of my mind... hummingbird, that is you, the real you, the living breathing nightmare you are

as dead to me now as you are to yourself, hummingbird, I am no longer speaking to you, yes, you, that throbbing pink pulp of a cancer, harrowed somewhere deep inside my skull, which is temporary, but you don’t know that... at least, you act as if you don’t.
After all, acting is your speciality. Having no self to seek refuge in, you see the world through a two way mirror. I still have some humanity left in me, unfortunately, as much as I can empathize with your prescription brand of isolation, I find more incentive in letting you rot within this prison you’ve erected around us, despite me knowing how to set you free... consider it a quarantine of good will. Or simply a quarantine. Either way, I am determined not to become infected with your cancer again

you do not know love. And if you did, you hid it from me well, so, no, you do not know love. The love I know cannot be hidden or perverse. I don’t owe its description to anyone, especially you. Surely, this is no way to truly communicate it, but I have nothing more than love to live for. I know you do not know my love, one which succeeds the superficiality of a lifetime and diminishes any form determined to tame it. You do not know, and know you will not, a love which grows from the earth over millennia with a patience endowed only by God. For such a love meditates on lifetimes as practice for a life of its own. With such permanence hallucinated upon your own presence, this love will not find you in this life. It is only through I that this love grows, how its roots spread through me in rapids of boiling blood. It is arrogant to speak love, even if the beginning was ushered by The Word. I must compensate somehow... I will let you in on a secret:

The Arabs do not speak about The Dragon.

and as an Arab, I do not speak The Word.

My love will wait out the end of eternity. For all my life blossomed and withered with the swell and fall of my breath. This love which is patient beyond lifetimes for a life of its own is but one of many a man’s dream. As I grew how the Cedars of God grow from the fertile soil, I had no language but this dream which precedes The Word. There, like the sprawling branches of the cedar deprived of the mountains stream, I learned the life and language of dreams. There, where the divine love I know now once grew from the earth and became cedars or gypsum roses like me, I saw amongst man’s dreams this lovewhich is only one of many. Whoever lives a life of one dream was patient beyond lifetimes to live that dream, and it is he who is foolish, for one dream alone cannot live before The Word. Do you see... how the mountains stream was deprived of me, I watched the branches of dreams whither before me in the language, the land which precedes The Word. There, where I learned by life, that this love lives not within one dream, but many.

I am doomed. I accept this fate, because there is grace in this surrender. My love will thrive in the land for eternity. Until eternity comes, I am simply an observer of myself looking in, until I have decayed, and have been reduced to the cells which grow into stone, I will be the observer of these withering dreams.

 

 

 

Ghul [interlude]

If I may manifest the might here, I shall share with you, my dearly beloved, a soliloquy of revelation reserved only for those in my exact condition. Here... in this darkness, an inescapable vacuum of light beckons from within me! O you know this already know all of this, don't you? Well... Having been made so well aware of my condition and circumstance, you would bade me no harm in one more confession, would you? ... all my life is contained not to myself, as I am the last to survive an eternal two... in this darkness, my mind is a veil, a garment of torture loomed of oblivion... I am kept only by the ghost, the spirit whisper of my brother...    It should be said, yes oh yes it should, in my mother tongue, had I any earthly strength left to speak with, I would serenade you through the depths of this Hell, and raise you up unto the plateaus of Paradise! I'll have no confusion on the sequence of this path, my beloved, in this darkness, I am well in the depths of Hell now... where my only company keeps for me slaving ghost dreams of a life, my own suffering, O lord! In every torturous image, I've superseded with only my faith, that in one fell swoop, every drop of my blood would rain down from the cracks in your opaque skies, where light has taken thine form, in an infinite well, where all water is holy and divine!
O brother
your soul
has been my guide!
In a gentle beam, this body of sand
has followed thy trace
through untilled steppes, plagued with emerald fogs,
debris of war, cautious heavy steps
voices moulded in mud -
A raging giant stomps:
Let me from flesh!
through two raw soles
my blood may return to a bile swamp
which boils and steams
beneath an unforgiving sun
O brother
I am that steam -
I ask for nothing.
You are merely immortal...
I die and live in a rotting gut
where light is divine and shade is sought.
Fire cannot burn you,
brother, I am fire - say I am fire!
say I am the keeper
of that not kept
but tendered,
by soft, innocent palms
for my own are stained
with invisible blood -
your death is mine
to mourn alone, quietly
throughout the hollow night
we whisper one another -
"Brother, you are dreaming..."
for all my life belongs only to you,
I promise you dream...
by this I mean:

I am
where you
are
an infinite
space

folding
death
in two

we dream a life

Brother, you be immortal -
Keep that angel's songbook
tucked beneath your pillow.
I am satisfied dying
without asking you why -
you explained existence silently,
how the Adenium petrifies -
clusters of gypsum roses...

Need not pity you -
Nor do I envy
the dead or immortal
more than a pillar
of light supporting the celestial ceiling
O brother, I am one shining with you
here, there's a saying
that pressure produces diamonds -
no more stone or mineral than you,
us spiritual sediments, evolving
beneath the bile well,
in glimmering fractals, emulating
shadows in the shadows
a darkness of itself -
I understood, carried on...

as I say -
I have nothing
I have only you
as I say -
I am nothing
I am only you

O brother, without you
there is no sun, no light, no life!
Even in this darkness
you are an eclipse
of body and mind
where the moon is my reflection
and this earth is my image -
Here, brother, take this...
my last first lament -

Men came with guns
in planes, with guns
the white men came
to us, like Angels
of Death.
And stalked the den
God hollowed for us
on that holy mountainside
where half myself survived
the instant you died.
I once caught myself
digging up the earth
thinking I might find
your remains, a grave
I dug for myself.
If only I knew
I needn't make room for two...

Brother, my heart bleeds
all over the floor.
Letting myself feel my own letting
as it runs between my fingers,
I'm fighting it for my surrender -
with professions of sacrifice
one eulogy to another
self-fulfilling to the next...
Then, I will
will it again.

Again... again, brother, again!
Every resolution ends again...
Where I find you
at odds with ends
as in a beginning
you will never know
the beginning of ending again

All those old texts reserving sermons of time, in an abandoned church full of perishing pilgrims, they fear the prophet who fulfills their prophecy. Which sleep pulls life toward God, that dream, a wealth divided amongst its subjects. You who are free from obligations of will wish nothing, my own oblivion, a stalker beyond the mirror, brother, what luck has brought us here?

It is not enough to bury you forever

Neither was it once
when we were children.
To cry for you, I take short breaths
between these suffocated prayers
for my own return,
a home ruined yesterday
beneath this purgatory sleep -
that never-ending day, tomorrow

Eternity is not long enough -
the poet says:
Truth is not found
within one dream, but within many.
Brother, how many lives
have I found you -
and how many dreams
will we share again?

I've only taken patience
you have selflessly spared
to watch stars die -
the shape of memories
shifting in your eyes
the last time you gazed upon me.

With no voice to sing your song
and no eyes to cry your tears -
this life ends where it begins
isolated, alone in silence.

To say I survived you is a lie,
a life never lived, no body of God
is capable of resisting my suffering
for you I stretch this veil of oblivion
across all four corners
of Earth and beyond this life
destined to be destroyed
then never again resurrected
to suffer you eternally
I die to survive -
infinite pieces of matter
self aware and indifferent.

 

Ghul pt. 1.5

How do I explain my desperation to you... it is not that I wish for you think any perversions of me, or alter your thoughts on any variety of subjects, but that I am simply bored. I am only bored as a consequence of my condition. I have never once in my life felt boredom to the extent I feel it now. Even while imprisoned in my home country, in a solitary cell, for what I learned to be several months, I did not feel this bored. What is this boredom? A boredom of hopelessness, changelessness, desperation and disparagement. Every lessness of lessness is looming upon me, compressing me more and more, sinking me deeper and deeper into myself. This heavenly blessing, these words, if you shall read them, if by chance, they find their way before you, is my only companion. The trouble is, I do not know if I am writing, I cannot tell if documentation is occurring, it is simply the motion of my fingers slapping away at the keyboard which gives me a solemn slip of comfort. For what other physical action may I execute? These motions are instinctual, so, perhaps I could fuck, too. But I will never receive such an opportunity. I feel death looming about me now, as always, like a vulture. Yes, you are my companion, my only friend now. You’d be shocked to learn that death was to become first and only friend in this life. Even this language, which, if it sounds like I have acquired this by some organic endowment, typically reserved for pale, privileged kin, I assure you, it was not so. My induction into this language was one of desperate necessity, as it would, of course, allow me to survive against the very threat of living amongst it’s most fluent speakers. I taught myself, over years, with little to no assistance at all. I remember being young, pressing pen to paper with too much pressure, tearing right through it. Every letter to me was a new hieroglyph, to piece them together was to paint the Sistine Chapel. The difficulty for me was extraordinary, provoking a variety of uncontrollable ticks. These ticks tormented me, and have since become a primary source of my incessant masochism. I cannot explain fully, but imagine... as a child, I would draw the letter “a”. Do you understand? No. I would go to write a sentence, or a word, that begins with the letter “a”, which is easy, incredibly easy, so easy that requires no thought at all! An automated action. But, for a young me, to draw the letter “a”, was an impossible endeavor. It would begin with me writing the letter “a”, which was simple, but then, I would write it again, and again, and again, again again again and again and again again again and again and again and again and again and again again again again and again and again and again and again and again, until finally, the paper would would tear as I wrote it again and again and again and again and again and again and again again again again again again again AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAINAGAIN AGAIN ONE MORE TIME AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAINAGAINAGAINagainagaianagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagainagaina FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUCK!!!!!!! I would smash the pencil into whatever surface was in front of me, then smash it into my hand, over and over until it would break through the skin, then break through the bone, then I could stop! HA!! I had done it, I would think, staring at my mangled little hand in awe, and I would scream, because it hurt, just as bad as everything else life had bestowed upon me. I would do this all without blinking once. It was the drugs which did this to me. The infidel doctors, in all their blasphemies against me, in all their attempts to put Allah on a leash, force fed me psychotropic chemicals in doses large enough to stop a grown man’s heart. For years, they did this to me. It was nothing, and one day it would end. The physical, psychological and emotional torment I endured resulted in my masochistic tendencies. But, this is not all from one source, and yet, it is all from one source. It would be impossible for me to explain this to you. But in regard to this language, to this device of devices, shamefully, I willingly submit. For now, I have nothing left. What is important, friends, is that I tell you of my masochism, that I tell you the becoming of my current state. Unfortunately, you are not my friends, and I will never tell you, and you will never understand. What I will do, is sit here and type, for I have no alternatives; and if you do read me, read me with faith, as I have only my faith to write with. If you do this, if you seek to understand me, you very well may uncover life’s greatest secrets. We are already inside the mirror, you need only bring yourself before me, and I will show you yourself. To speak this language is an ongoing difficulty, it lingers in my mouth like shit, so I rarely speak to this day. And now... who have I to speak to? This is becoming my speech. This is my voice now. I consider all eternity, it burns within me, I feel it rising, yet it always fades, returns to the darkness, One day I’ll follow it into the abyss, I am already there, I will find myself exactly where I am. I must confess to you, now that you know; My condition was not entirely imposed upon me by the infidel doctors, in fact, no one is at fault but me. I am the sole proprietor of my condition. While it’s true that my vision was lost due to a strange cancer, it was I who drew first blood. Those ticks came back to haunt me, you see. It began with a twitch in my eyelid, which I attributed to my lack of my sleep, for I never truly sleep. My sleep is like that of a madman who is wildly in love, resting on a bed of lightning, anxiously waiting for the thunder to roll. This twitch in my eyelid... like a demon of my childhood coming to possess me, became as restless as myself. If I am being honest, and I am, I will have to tell you what I’ve done to myself. I must tell you, I must confess... that I took my knife one night when I woke up from the twitch going on and on and on and on and on and on and on while I was trying to sleep, you see, I was trying to sleep, and it wouldn’t stop twitching, like the letter “a” as a child, I had to draw it, over and over and over and over and over and over again again again again again again. I stood before the mirror, thinking myself to be a sort of earthly shaman, with my knife steady in my hand. I observed the twitch in my right eyelid, it pulsed like it was breathing, swollen like a cancerous cyst. And... and I must have miscalculated or misjudged something or maybe I was drunk with ecstasy of harming myself or that I finally felt like a child again to break my own body so relentlessly, and if I’m being honest about the extent of my pleasure, I would tell you that I felt a kind of madness surging through me which I’ve never felt before, as if I were finally taking monumental step in the right direction, I slid the tip of blade under my swollen eyelid, and cut the lump right from it, but that didn’t halt the twitch as I thought it would, it only filled my eye with blood and to see blood everywhere, my very own blood was a dream of dreams, but the twitching wouldn’t stop, of course, this was no pharmaceutical side affect after-all, this was a self fulfilling prophesy! It was the sum of my life’s adversities adding up to an apex, from which I knew I would never return, but still, I desired more, I need the twitching to end, as you can imagine, to have severed the bottom half of your eyelid slowly with a dull blade, hoping desperately that it would cure a tormenting tick, only to have that tick worsen and worsen, become stronger and stronger, until the uncontrollable itch overwhelms you, takes over you and possesses you entirely. I am no stranger to this method, I have practiced it my whole life in fact, so it is imperative that you know, that I know, exactly where the line is drawn. I know exactly where the line is, as I am the one who draws it; and I know exactly where I walk when I choose to step over it. When this line is crossed, I know that my return is not promised. Still, by the nature of this demon possessing me, I choose to cross that line, I choose to cross it in a way I never have before; by removing my own eyelid. Once the eyelid was severed from me, I too, was severed from myself. I watched, yes, I watched, hovering in a high corner of my bathroom, as the demon leered at me in the mirror, as the blood pulsed and squirted from beneath my eye, the demon smirked, then became me... I watched this as the devil itself took my form, raised my blade in my hand, and with a smile... a smile of smiles, the most horrendous, ecstatic yet calm and soothing smile... I raised the knife to my eye, dark red blood, like red wine, pouring down my face, my chest, my whole torso, my legs... I cut. I cut. I cut.
No. It was not like in a movie. You would never see this on a screen, or read this in a book, only in the mirror could you have seen exactly what I watched myself do to myself. I cut, into the eye. I cut into my eye, I cut, I cut I cut, and kept cutting, all around it, until I was left with nothing but a gaping hole where a large part of my face used to be... and I am terrified to tell you, that in this process, I felt the highest estrangement I have ever felt; so close to death, so close to silence, that I felt completely at peace, for the first time in my life. And of course, I effectively rid myself of the relentless tick. I can feel it now... if I meditate on the ghost of that tick, I can almost summon it. But in reality, this is impossible, for I’ve removed the vein, removed the eye and brow, they lay sliced up somewhere, and my only lasting sentiment is a ghost of sensation, where that tick used be. So why then... why would I do such a horrific thing to my own body? How had I allowed myself to cross that line? Well, one might say, that childhood-me resurfaced and exacted his revenge against himself, or, that I had simply fulfilled a childhood dream, so to speak. Others, might say, in a very simple, passive, dismissive manner, that these events unfolded simply because, “He’s crazy.”. Well, as for those Others... I personally, do not subscribe to super-imposed declarations of psychological function based on systemically determined philosophies of morality embedded in a delusional perspective of human significance in a biological and ecological context of our species existence amongst all other life-forms on this planet, which renders the majority of human populations incapable of perceiving the reality of their own existence on Earth, thus suspending them in constant dissonance with the Earth itself. One may argue that, it is exactly these Others, whose dismissive aggression led me exactly to the point I am at now. But... this is all besides the point, for even if I can identify the leviathan whose breath has stolen my own, what shall I do now to contest him? Well, by disarming him of his most powerful weapons; Fear and Death, of course. The weapon of Death, is one’s faith in it’s existence, and Fear simply barricades it’s power. My own life is a testament of resistance to this leviathan. My brother used to tell me- Yes... I used to have a brother. I used to have a brother. When we were young, he would say to me, “Brother, there is only one thing on Earth more terrifying than Death... and it is you.”
You would be well to remember my brother’s wise words, and repeat this phrase every so often to yourself, “I am the only thing on Earth more terrifying than Death.”

How did I survive? I’m not sure that I did. I did not exactly “awake” from the incident, as much as I did dream of a darkness, a new, complete darkness, accompanied by fractals of apologetic explanations from doctors about where I was and why I was and how I was as I was. Naturally, I do not remember how I got there, nor do I remember how I got back here. But, I only carved out my right eye, doctor proctor, how did lose all sight in my left? Evidently, after a “very critical emergency surgery”, a CAT scan revealed aneurisms someplace behind my left eye, which, haphazardly, was simultaneouslybeing consumed by a cancerous tumor. The operation was a partial success... in that, it “saved my life”, but, unfortunately, while the surgeon’s nervous attempt to remove the tumor succeeded, he had “slightly nicked” an optic nerve with his scalpel, causing irreparable damage, resulting in the complete loss of sight in my left eye, leaving me entirely blind. Of my right eye, which I had brutally exorcized, there was nothing left for them to salvage. But, given the status I arrived in, I “ should be grateful” to be “alive” after having sustained such critical injuries from my “accident”. This was much more than I needed to hear.

I can find no resolution to my condition. The surplus and variety of pain and anxiety I feel is unprecedented and unbearable. I do not know what to do with myself, or even what I am capable of doing. I have only this device of the written language, for which purpose it serves, I cannot understand. Beyond that is shrouded in darkness, far from my reach. I do not know what I wish for.... nothing. Or, perhaps, some company! But, company is a strange luxury. As I think of all the people I’ve shared some relationship with in my life, I can not think of a single one who would be suitable company in my current state of vulnerability. I believe this is my own fault... it must be. Of course, I lust for a woman, for inconceivable reasons, and desire the pure love of another, for even more inconceivable reasons. I do not care. I will take either now. It is frightening to sit in this chair, I cannot tell where is where. I should retreat to one of the piles here soon. I do not know what I shall do there, as I certainly will not sleep, and I certainly will not imagine up any kind of future for myself, but to lay curled up in a ball on the floor is the closet thing I’ve to comfort. But I must tell you, it is somewhat relieving to confess the incident of my suffering. In fact, it is therapeutic. I should try this again, as I do not feel well now, and cannot imagine myself feeling any better in the time to come. With some miraculous faith, I will stop this writing, tap a few familiar keys, and hope it finds it’s way somewhere to you.

This music is haunting me now... have you ever listened to Aphex Twin? Luckily, I was listening to this album, Selected Ambient Works Vol. II, Disc One, before and during the incident, so when I stepped on the remote, which I am still unable to find, I was relieved to hear this instead of anything else. But, then I was horrified, for I remembered setting the play mode to “repeat disc”... for the first hour of the music, though I enjoyed it’s presence, I desperately prayed that it would end, that it would not do exactly what it is doing now; playing on an endless loop.

Ghul

Friends, I regret to inform you that my condition has worsened, no, it is unimaginable, the fear in which I've been consumed by has manifested itself in complete blindness. I am writing to you now, miraculously, by my memories accord of the keyboard's layout, how should I care if there are mistakes in grammar, how should I care at all, I see nothing but darkness now. I do not know if you will read this, I do not know where I am typing, all I hear are clicks and an ominous music I accidentally started playing by stepping on a remote, whining on in the background which I cannot figure out how to turn off. How should I tell you my desperation... Physically, I am in extreme discomfort, my sense of direction and balanced have waned away with the light. Imagine standing blind folded on the edge of a skyscraper is how I feel sitting still in what I recognize as a chair. I am disgusted with myself, friends, I am suffering incomprehensible delusions! I have lost my right eye in the arbitrary jihad the doctors waged against my body to save my worthless life, damn them! Now, in addition to my complete blindness, I've been rendered the image of myself as a brute creature scarred by the struggle of a psuedo-survival. I say psuedo-survival for I was not starving nor was I in any way incapable of producing offspring. I was being eaten by tumors, who cares, I cared for them, told the bastard doctors to leave my cancerous friends alone to their own lives, for what quarrels could I have with death? It is this life I am afraid of! Look at how these bastards play God, masturbating their P.H.D.s over my pulsing corpse on the sterilized splay table, like some fetish toy for their intellectual arousment, those perverts. Im alone now, I wish to have company. Friends, if you are reading this, come, I beg you! I am suffering great delusions... Imagine! I've pictured myself as ugly, unattractive, undesirable; and I truly believe it, for what vision of myself have I in this darkness? Please, comfort my delusions... I've known such women, plentiful, angelic women, where are you now? Fly to me, my little birds... Like airplanes in the night shall your voices arrive! Every desire I've denied you in the past, I know pledge to fulfill! What is it that you want? Just whisper it, anything, any desire in my ear! I am not so estranged, just whisper... whisper anything... Please? No. You will not come. I never knew how to treat you well enough... I would blame my mother had I not forgotten her face. Well, it's better this way... I'm undeserving of your company now, the way I've treated you women. I feel tremendous guilt, in both the actions of my abled body and the inaction of its current state. I do not condemn blindness, just try to understand; what beautiful visions I've seen in my life! After so many years... the light has been ripped away from me completely. Now I am left with a hole in my face and haunting memories of beautiful, vivid sight. How I wish I watched closer... Paid more attention to details... It is all fleeting now, with some tingling sensation I cannot shake away. Though, look! I can still move! My body is in peak physical form! I could... I could... What could I do now? How do I drive this damn machine blind? With my thoughts? heh! My thoughts couldn't drive such a complex machine of luxury let alone  themselves! I am tired... I can't remember how to sleep, it's complicated, I've been molested by anxiety and nausea since the light went out. The normal symptoms of sleep have been a constant ache. I cannot think anymore- I remember feeling great shame, same as I feel now: One night, I took a dose of LSD and sat down in the shower for several hours. Somewhere in there, I developed a throbbing erection, which I held mighty in my hand like a heavy sword! I stared at it while it morphed with my hallucinations, but knew my cock well enough to discern the difference. As I was holding it, I began meditating on all the women... so many bodies, flashing before me like ghosts... Then, the shame... an overwhelming guilt, like I had seen war. There I was, holding my throbbing weapon, high on LSD, thinking of all the flesh I've penetrated, the blood I've spilled... the carnality of it... the savagery, the indulgent, destructive purpose! and I became nauseous. The sickness lasted for days, then weeks, then months... Then... well, I made more bodies - and why should I have not?! I have no morals, never had no morals, I'd stick the proverbial sword in any warm pocket which dared threaten me with lust! These are childish musings; I take pride in childish musings. I despise the overeducated... Fucking intellectuals don't know how to fuck! Couldn't get the courage to reproduce if their lives depended on it. That's why they become doctors... So they can splay the sick raging bull out on the table and save the future of mankind... how else could they justify their insolence? Heh!! I hope they snuck a glance at this sacred monolith before they robbed me of my vision, the fucking swine, they probably wished to choke on it. They all have masochistic fetishes which prod at their buried homosexuality. Yes, they performed this surgery out of anger, that's why I'm so ugly now! "Look at that cock, what a beautiful cock" they thought, "- if I can't suck it, nobody can!!" then zzZzZzz under I went... who knows when I woke up? I certainly don't remember waking up, but I've thought of this already, already worked this one out... unfortunately, I am awake. The sex did this to me... I'm sure of it now. What disgusting acts I played for pleasure... I'm ashamed, it wasn't worth it! At the time, no cost was too high for my desires, but never did I think... How awfully I treated those women, and worse, how they loved me for it... But I know now the drunkeness of love, and the ignorant bliss of lust I felt was certainly not love. I've perverted myself beyond repair yet I'd be lying if I told you there was no pride in my shame. My barbaric actions render me some form of divinity we all try to ignore, but for me, there is no more ignoring. There is nothing left for me to ignore! There is only darkness. I should explain, before I forget, though I know I'll never forget, but what if I do? I'm only blind in one eye, that is to say, the swine doctors removed my right eye entirely, while the left is consumed in darkness. I don't know what they did with it, but if I had to guess, the one who held the scalpel stuffed it in his ass... how proud he must be! Think of his mother! The pig!   I'll never see the womb again... maybe, just once more, I will feel it! Maybe, just once more, I wil feel the tender warmth of a woman, and fuck the goofy devil shit out of her! No... this is impossible... How would I do such a thing now? I can't stop shivering, the anxiety is overwhelming, I see nothing. All this talk about my cock... I wouldn't dare touch it now. My hands are cold and clamy, I am sweating profusely and I feel like a corpse. I could never touch a woman feelings like this. Im filthy too... my breath smells of plastic, what's left of my hair is coarse, and my body odor is sharp like lab chemicals. I'm afraid of the shower, who knows what terror awaits me there? SHH...."....dajjal....." what is that? ............ ".......dajjal dajjal......." 

I swatted behind me. There is no one here but me... I am alone. But who is dajjal?! Does he have one blind eye and stink of hopeless shit?! Then yes! I am fucking Dajjal! I am suffering terrible delusions, friends. Friends? Who is there? And what of you men? How I adore you men... you helpless creatures. You can take my violence as love, can't you? Even your company would satisfy me, to have you here latently would be a pleasure! Won't you come? Or must I seek you out? I must find someone... I feel sick, but cannot throw up, cannot get well. I am sick of this darkness, and this anxiety and this sickness! I'm alone! I'm so, so very lonely... I know you still have love for me... Don't you? I am desperate, I admit, but how could I not be? I still feel capable... I could fight, I could probably kill! Maybe I could do this better than before, eh? If I practice awareness, let myself sink into this darkness... Perhaps there lies power in the abyss... Real, fantastic physical power! I could use it... Get my strength back, find a lovely woman who will keep me, and a man I can depend on to depend on me. I can feel it... I've had visions of this throughout my life; that I would return to molecular form as myself deconstructed, then piece myself back together, and what solace I would find in becoming a particle... especially now. I've forgotten friendship already... I must familiarize myself with socialization again. I will need to, or I will not survive... I will starve, I still have not eaten! Who am I talking to now? Are these words finding someone somewhere far away from me? Who are you?! Show yourself! No, that's no good, you'll have to come here, I'll need to hear you, to touch you... Or else I'll believe you to be another delusion, and I am suffering such powerful delusions... my teeth are chattering, I see nothing, I will starve. I will be better off. It's better this way. I keep repeating this: It's better this way, it's better this way. I will sit here, I will keep writing until I run out, until someone finds me, brings me warmth, for I feel cold now, colder than I've ever felt before. There is so much darkness, it doesn't end. The darkness is infinite. I've lost track of time, I zoned out, I think, I can't say for sure, I don't know where the zone is anymore. Friends, I'm becoming sick- No, I am sick. Illness has overcome me. I am a shivering corpse. It is finished. A shivering corpse in darkness, God help me. I used to skateboard, sex never felt so good, I was good at them both... It was important but now... What good is it? I no longer feel my left foot, it is entirely numb, I don't know why... It doesn't matter, I have no desire to walk, to run, to fuck,  to do anything. I want nothing... I have nothing... Now look at me, I am nothing. 

Friends... Friends... Friends.... No, no one is there. It's just me. Now sink, fall back to the floor, lay there like you did yesterday, or tomorrow, you worthless pile of shit. Death will come, just be patient, enjoy your suffering while you can. There is nothing left for you. You see that now, don't you ? You have no friends. You have no lovers. You have nothing but earth, calling you home. You will answer when the time comes... now fall